Lying down, she closed her eyes and forced her mind back to the aftermath of the second attempt on her life. She’d been frantic to escape and someone had sedated her. When she’d awakened, she was in a long-term facility run by French nuns who still wore full habit, something she hadn’t seen since her elementary school days.
After three days of hell while she’d tried in vain to make herself understood, Sister Gabriella took over as her primary caregiver. Fluent in English, the middle-aged nun had helped her through the agonizing early days of physiotherapy and had taught her to knit. Having something to do with her hands since she couldn’t even get out of bed on her own had been a godsend.
About a month later, Sister Gabriella had given her the sketch pad, charcoal pencils, and an eraser. Pleased to be able to do what she loved best, Alexa had drawn the assassins. Chief Inspector Doucet had visited her the following day, and she’d given him the drawings.
In early August, Callaghan had introduced himself as an RCMP officer and explained he would be taking over her case from the SQ. Four weeks later, he’d brought her here. At the time, she’d been thrilled to be left alone. She’d slept a lot, read the classic novels she’d found on the shelves, knitted, listened to the jazz tapes, and had begun talking aloud to herself.
And if anyone knew about that, it would discredit her testimony. Zabat didn’t need to kill her. She was already dead. Alexa O’Brien didn’t exist. All the court would see was a rambling woman whose mind might not be that sound. Any of the neighbors could testify to her hermit-like lifestyle.
So what was she? Bait in the trap Zabat had set for Mike? He’d obviously been after the mobster for a while. Getting up, she used the furniture to get to the bathroom. She washed her face, fixed her hair, and returned to the wheelchair. If this Zabat thought he was going to win, he was wrong. This pity party was officially over. Nobody was going to use her. She’d escaped from Richard. How much harder could this be?
Wheeling herself back into the main room, she found Mike going through the kitchen cupboards.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Nothing in particular,” he answered too quickly.
She frowned. Was he lying again? Why?
“I’ve found a few treasures. I don’t know why these were on the top shelf since you couldn’t have reached them.”
He turned around. On the counter in front of him were six bottles of wine—three red and three white, all of them the type she preferred—a large bag of popping corn, and a box of her favorite brand of chocolates. She hissed in a breath as she recognized the pear-shaped bottle Mike held in his hand.
“What’s that?” The acid in her stomach swirled. It couldn’t be what it seemed.
“That is very old, very expensive cognac, and I’d say the bottle is worth a couple of thousand dollars. It’s Rémy Martin, one of France’s top brands.”
Alexa swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “Probably closer to three grand. I know someone who drinks the stuff.”
Richard was a cognac brandy connoisseur. He’d gotten a bottle exactly like that from a patient last Christmas and had made a huge production about the way it had to be consumed. While she enjoyed wine, the brandy had been too strong for her palate, but she’d known enough to keep her mouth shut about it.
“Are you all right?” Mike asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just tired,” she lied. “It’s been a hell of a day. Did you find anything else?” Anything that wouldn’t make her think of Richard.
“No, but I’m going to take a closer look at the garage later.” He smiled. “I made some more of that peppermint tea if you’d like a cup.”
“I would, thanks.”
“While you were in your room, I was doing some thinking. How many people know how badly you were injured?”
“After the second attempt on my life, Doucet sent me to a private rehabilitation center, so there aren’t many. The nun who took care of me, the doctor who visited each week, the physiotherapist who designed my program, and the surgeon who operated on my back, but I’ve made better progress than any of them expected. The bullet damaged two vertebrae in the lower spinal column and did some ligament and muscle damage, but nothing permanent. As you can see, I’m getting stronger every day.”
“Did Callaghan know how fast you were healing?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure. The last time he was here was a bad day for me. I had several muscle spasms.”
“That’s good.”
But his glower and crossed arms showed he wasn’t as confident as he sounded.
“I don’t mean about the spasms. I mean that if he was killed, then he might not have given an accurate report on your convalescence. I wasn’t aware there were still nursing sisters in the province.”
“I don’t know if there are any in the hospitals. The convent was in the country. I’m sure everyone there meant well, but I felt like a prisoner. I had to beg Callaghan to get me released.” She chuckled bitterly. “It looks like I simply moved from one jail to another.”
“There aren’t many of those private convents left in Quebec, or the rest of the world for that matter,” he said. “Were there a lot of nuns there?”
“I don’t know. I had contact with only a half dozen or so, and when I went out into the garden for air, they were usually at prayer.”
“I see. That could work in our favor. Since so few people know the extent of your injuries, it may give us an advantage, a slight one, but it betters the odds of getting out of here alive.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I’m not 100 percent sure yet, but as soon as the storm lets up, we’ll have to make a run for it. Right now, though, how about we forget about everything for a while and watch one of those movies? Then we can have something to eat. I need to think this through before I present it to you. You did say you wanted input, right?”
Nodding, she smiled. “Thanks for believing in me.”
He grinned in response, and that grin shot right to her heart, bringing with it emotions she fought hard to suppress. The last thing she needed or wanted was to be attracted to this man. At the moment, he treated her as an equal, but she had no doubt that when push came to shove, he would do things his way, regardless of her opinion on the matter. He had a temper, and the bruises on his face pointed to his propensity for violence. Getting involved with a man like this could only end badly.
• • •
Alexa washed while he dried. He was inclined to believe Alexa was exactly what she said she was, even if she still had secrets. The fact she preferred the same perfume as his wife had thrown him, but now he recognized another layer to the scent that had to be the woman herself.
Yeah, he wasn’t completely convinced.
Mike dried the last plate and put it back into the cupboard. What she’d said about convalescing in a convent ate at him. To the best of his knowledge, very few—if any—nuns in Quebec wore habits, and he couldn’t think of a single congregation with a place like she described. Oh, the convents existed, but most had been sold and repurposed. The old motherhouse for the congregation of Notre Dame was now part of Dawson College, and the Grey Nuns’ residence was a dorm for Concordia University. Since she’d seen only a handful of nuns, it was possible her convent was as much a setup as this chalet was. But that made no sense. Why would Zabat go to all this trouble if he planned to kill her?
Mike was missing something.
“Have you given any more thought to our escape plan?” she asked, pulling the plug out of the sink.
“Yeah. According to the last weather report I heard, the storm should end sometime Tuesday morning, so I’m considering leaving here at first light, before the snow stops.” It would be safer traveling during the day when the wolves were sleeping. They’d put on quite the concert earlier when he’d checked the area. “We’ll use the snowmobile, and while it probably won’t be the most pleasant experience for you, it can’t be helped. It’s po
ssible they don’t know I have it. I didn’t even mention it to Henri, and let’s just say the guy I got it from isn’t going to tell either.”
“Did you steal it?” she asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“Not exactly, but the ownership isn’t going to show up anywhere. I got it from a repo man, one who doesn’t particularly like the SQ.” He shrugged. “I’ve known him for years. He’s legit, but barely. We’ll go into Sainte Adèle—there’s someone living there we can trust—and reexamine our options. I’ve got everything we need in there.” He indicated the bag he’d dropped near the door when he’d arrived.
“Does that include winter clothing for me?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t have a winter coat, let alone boots and a snowsuit like the one you were wearing. And before you curse a blue streak in French, using words I’ve never heard, please remember I arrived here in late September, and everything I owned was taken from me. Dead women travel light.”
“Where did you get your clothes?” Not that they were the best fit.
“The nuns gave me two pairs of jeans, undies, socks, and three shirts. I made this sweater. When I arrived, the weather was still warm. Since then, Callaghan got me a fleece hoodie, and I’m working on a knitted set. The hat and scarf are done, but I’ve only started on the mitts, and as for footwear,” she pointed to her slippered feet, “this is it.” She shrugged. “I didn’t expect to be going snowmobiling. Callaghan was looking into getting me a coat and boots so that I could sit outside when the weather was nice, but . . . Truth be told, I anticipated being far away from here by now. I guess you aren’t the only one who assumes.”
Mike stared at her. She wasn’t meant to leave this place alive. No coat, no shoes. Someone was toying with her—a cat playing with a mouse until he was ready to kill it.
Hiding his dismay, he smiled. “Despite being stuck in the seventies, this is someone’s ski chalet. Have you checked all the closets?” Taking her out on the snowmobile without the right gear would be a death sentence.
“The few items of clothing in my closet are mine. There’s none in the room where my physio equipment is, but I haven’t looked in the other one. You wore the only coat here. Callaghan used it when he saw to the wood. I suppose I could wear it—it’s better than nothing. There’s an attic, but the door’s padlocked.”
“Where is it?”
“The utility cupboard ceiling in the pantry. I haven’t seen a ladder or anything high enough to reach it.”
“I’m sure there’s one in the garage or the shed, and don’t worry. I’ve picked a few locks in my day. Let’s hope there’s something warm in there for you. If not, we’ll have to improvise.” He tried to inject optimism in his words, but, if anything, she was paler than ever.
“Why Sainte Adèle?” she asked, wringing her hands.
“Two reasons. The first, if there is anyone waiting and watching, the chances are they’re in the village. Sainte Adèle is a little farther than Saint Sauveur, but I promise I’ll do my best not to make it too rough on you. As far as the town itself goes, it’s a larger place, and we’ll be less conspicuous. I mentioned the second reason already. I’ve got friends from my youth living there, friends with more resources and expertise than I have right now. If whoever’s after you knows about your injuries, they won’t expect you to be able to travel that far.”
“Then they’ll be wrong, won’t they?” she answered, raising her chin.
He smiled. The lady was a trooper. He’d worked with guys who would’ve given up by now. “I’ll contact my partner when I think it’s safe, but I won’t use any of the stuff they gave us other than the cash. It could be marked, but let’s hope it isn’t. Without money, we’re dead in the water. Are there any suitcases here?”
“I’ve got a small one—I don’t have a lot of clothes—but there’s what looks like a huge backpack in the back room. Will that do?”
“Yes. That duffel bag will stay here in case there’s a GPS tracker built into it. Any questions?”
She shook her head. “No. You seem to have thought of everything.”
“Good. Let me do another perimeter check, and then I’ll stop by the garage for that ladder. Maybe we can have a look up there when I get back. In the meantime, if you see anything strange or anyone knocks and it isn’t me, shoot first and ask questions later.” He stood. “The gun’s accurate. Now, come lock up behind me. It’s after nine. I won’t be long.”
Mike completed his circuit around the chalet and plodded through the snow down to the main road and back to satisfy himself that nothing had changed in the two hours since he’d last checked. While he’d given the garage a cursory examination and had noted the door was padlocked, he hadn’t realized the thing was a new one, and not a cheap model either. Pulling his lock-picking kit out of his pocket—like his gun, he never went anywhere without it—he quickly opened the door and stepped inside. The damn place was heated. Why heat the garage and not the house?
Closing the door behind him, he removed his hat and mitts, laying them on top of the box closest to the door. He frowned. The interior of the garage seemed smaller than the outside, no doubt because of the numerous boxes piled up willy-nilly all over the place. Even if Alexa had a car, it was doubtful she could’ve kept it in here, at least not without rearranging things. But it would be large enough to hold the snowmobile, providing the main door worked. Pushing the button, he smiled when it rolled up with ease. He would have to shovel some to get the snowmobile inside without having to make a three-foot drop, but it could be done. Closing the garage door once more, he went in search of the ladder.
He flipped the switch to turn on the light and frowned. What should’ve been the outside wall wasn’t. There was a door here. He’d circled this building at least fifty times, and he would swear on a stack of Bibles that it didn’t have a back door.
As he shoved his way through the boxes to the back of the room, he realized most of them were empty. Why keep old appliance boxes?
The lock on this door, a high-quality dead bolt, was better and stronger than the one on the chalet—not that it would stop him. Picking it as he had the first, he opened the door and ran his hand along the wall to find the switch. Light flooded the room. He stood still and gawked, his brain barely making sense of what he could see.
“Saint Ciboire!” The curse left him before he could stop it. “What the hell’s going on?”
This was a control room, like something out of a James Bond movie. It was a lot more sophisticated and well equipped than any SQ surveillance van he’d ever used. In fact, he’d never seen anything like it.
“Holy shit!”
On the split monitor in front of him, he could see the inside of almost the entire chalet.
Alexa sat in her wheelchair in front of the woodstove. She’d picked up her sketch pad again and was drawing. There were cameras in her bedroom and bathroom, a room he believed was her therapy room, judging by the light in its doorway, and the kitchen. He didn’t see the other bathroom or the room he’d slept in, but that could be because those cameras were currently not recording. From the angle of the shots, the spy cams were in the ceiling, tracking her every movement, including when she was in the shower. No wonder this damn room was padlocked. The last thing this Peeping Tom would want was for someone to discover his dirty little secret. Zabat was a sick son of a bitch to be sure, but Mike would never have picked him for a voyeur.
Alexa coughed . . . which meant there were microphones as well. Where was the feed coming from? There had to be wires buried underground. The system didn’t operate on Wi-Fi. He’d tried his cell phone earlier and would’ve noticed if Wi-Fi had been available in the area, even if Callaghan had told her it wasn’t. Rooting around, he found what he was looking for. The large screen was connected to a laptop computer under the desk, and several cables were plugged into it. He opened it, nodding when it came on automatically. He checked the battery level—fully charged.
While he was by no means a computer genius, it didn’t take Mike long to find what he was looking for. The security cameras, which functioned twenty-four hours a day, were wired into the computer. At the end of each day, the file was archived and a new one started.
According to the log, the video files had been downloaded twelve times. The most recent file transfer had occurred on Callaghan’s last visit. Had the pervert gotten off watching her? Or was he collecting data for someone else? It seemed strange that Zabat would go to all this trouble to protect a woman who could put him behind bars, but could it be the magician keeping tabs on her in order to blackmail Zabat into doing something for him—like smuggling in C-4?
Since Callaghan had known her gun was useless, if anybody had come to the chalet to kill her, Alexa would’ve been defenseless. Whoever owned this equipment would have her murder on tape. If someone wanted to keep tabs on her, it was as efficient a way to do it as any, and if that person needed proof that the execution had occurred, it didn’t get any better than this. To top it all off, her death on tape would give the person in charge additional blackmail information. The sheer cold-bloodedness of it all made him sick. There was no way the Mounties or the SQ would run an operation like this.
He reached around and unplugged the large monitor. The screen went black, leaving only the smaller computer screen to show what was happening inside the cabin. Disconnecting the laptop from its spider web of cables, he closed it and carried it out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Alexa’s bad day was about to get a whole lot worse, but what choice did he have? She needed to know what they were up against, even if they didn’t know who was behind it all. And that fact bothered him more than anything else. Whoever was in charge of this appeared to have limitless resources.
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